The Other Side
by Immoroita
Summary: For it seems there is an other side to everything. After all, the gods are not emotionless creatures. But their emotions may not always be pleasant. Drabble.


_-{fear|remorse}-_

His daughter.

Maria's daughter.

Their one and only daughter.

Gone. Forever.

His eyes torn with the new sensation of remorse, he howls at the dreary, black sky of his realm, a desperate call for vengeance, a desperate call of despair. Her eyes are closed in the immeasurable calm and peace that Death brings, and he gazes at her with hungry eyes, taking in every feature, vowing to never forget them.

There, on earth, where he will never be welcome, he sees Thanatos gliding noiselessly from his daughter's body, which has been silenced for the last time, and like the souls embroidered onto his robes, guilt tears at his heart, mercilessly stripping away every last piece of happiness and leaving him with nothing but anger.

Anger at his brethren.

Anger at the world.

Anger at _himself._

Would it have been better, he thinks to himself as he stares fixedly at the soul of his daughter, if he had just let the lot of them die? Would it have been better then? To never have to watch his children suffer, to never have to feel a bittersweet sensation every time he looked at them, to never have to endure this much sadness?

Perhaps.

_Perhaps._

Just another meaningless word in his long string of lies.

_-{power|cruelty}-_

Her hair flies out behind her as she spins and twirls in some sort of ferocious dance, electricity crackling at her fingertips. He looks down at her emotionlessly as she fights them off, pure shadow made into tangible being, darting at her over and over again as she grows more and more fatigued.

Suddenly one leaps at her and it slashes at her throat, and she crumples to the ground. The shadows dart away, knowing that she's finished. He looks down at her as she chokes on her own blood, not sure what to make of it.

There is a boy. The boy runs up to her. He kneels next to her, gripping her hand, begging her not to succumb to Death. She turns her eyes up to him, and some mutual understanding flashes between them, and then the hand holding his goes slack, and she falls back, eyes empty and unseeing. He, holding her body, begins to sob, his tears falling onto her face, mingling with the rain that begins to fall.

From the heavens, he watches them, now feeling mild amusement. Is this really how mortals go about their love affairs?

Pathetic.

He decides that, as a way of showing he truly is sorry for the loss of his daughter, he should turn her into something more lasting. Something that will not die. Something that may last for all of eternity, if necessary.

And so his daughter becomes a pine tree, immortalized in the form of nature, managing to cling onto life thanks to her father's last gift.

But he feels nothing for the girl.

He should have left her to die.

_-{possibility|regret}-_

The waves lap at his feet as he walks down the beach, his eyes blank and emotionless. He jabs his trident at the waves forcefully, which immediately heighten, and he continues, ignoring the storm that looms overhead.

He has lost her.

Forever.

Where will he meet another woman like that?

But he tries to talk sense into himself. She will age, while he will not. She will grow old, while he will remain a young man. She will eventually be led off by Death, while he will not be capable of doing anything but mourning her loss from afar, trying to reach for her warm hand but catching only air every time.

He swipes savagely at the air with his trident in his frustration, causing the storm that has been threatening to come. With a roar of anger, he disappears and melts into water, seeking comfort in the only thing that can console him. But even this does not helps

Immortality.

A blessing, but a curse.

_-{wisdom|scorn}-_

She watches her daughter sit at her planning table, her pencil tapping against the wood, her brow creased in thought. Suddenly an idea seems to strike and she begins to write furiously, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth, a spare pencil tucked behind her ear, and her mother chuckles at her enthusiasm.

It isn't as though her architecture will ever come to anything, thinks she, leaning back and regarding the hopeful girl with laughter dancing in her eyes. No, she will never amount to anything, but it is never too late to dream.

Alas, dreams will never be reality.

Her gaze flickers to uncertainty for a moment before it is back to the same gray, piercing stare. Her father dreamed too big as well, dared to wildly believe that she would return to their family, but he had to give up eventually and accept that she was never coming back to them, that she was better off without them, and they were better off without her. The girl will give up as well on her dream, which will crumble into ruins soon enough, and she will leave for Death as a failed architect, to roam Elysium forever, knowing that she never accomplished her goal. Her mother gazes down at her and laughs cruelly.

She will never be somebody.

At least not somebody of worth.

_-{mischief|trickery}-_

Pride.

Nothing but pride.

It brims in his gaze and wells up inside of him, and he beams down at his son, who is everything he ever wanted him to be. He watches the sword-fighting practice, remembering the woman he once fell in love with, the woman who bore him such a wonderful son. With a pang of regret, he remembers her steady decline, and the crazy woman who now obscures the motherly one he used to know.

If only Death had taken her. She would have been so much happier.

He has beaten another opponent, and goes to take a breath. His father wants to congratulate him, let him know that he is still watching out for him, to do something that can convey his love. But he has to settle for watching his son from far away, planning out a speech that he will never be able to deliver.

A boy who shows such promise should have a father, a mother, two parents who can look out for him and care for him. Instead, he has a mad woman who makes burnt cookies and stale sandwiches, and a father who is so busy with his job that he can never see his son, much less speak to him. No wonder he turned his back on them.

With a heavy heart, he turns from his son, wishing that he could hear all the words that his father will never be able to say.

**Author's Note: **This is my first Percy Jackson and the Olympians fic in a very, very long time. I hope it is acceptable; my knowledge on the series is really quite rusty now.

This was my attempt at a more… enigmatic style, shall we say. I apologize if you weren't quite able to tell who was who - 'he', 'she', 'he'.

This was written for the sole purpose of conveying that there are two sides to everything, and my interpretation of the other, unseen side of the gods, and what they feel for their children. And so it seems, not even the gods are strawberry-peachy-perfect.

Thank you for reading!


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